


I've Gone Crazy

by JD_Centric



Series: Like Dahmer Mixed with Bundy [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Blood, Consent Issues, Crime, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Trauma, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder, Smut, Tension, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-09 05:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17995853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JD_Centric/pseuds/JD_Centric
Summary: "And he was right to feel the way he did. Because when Patrick led him to the living room, when he let him see his surprise, all Henry could do was stare – his expression betrayed no emotion and he felt nothing, not even confusion.“Patrick,” he began quietly, “why?”//Having had enough of their domestic comfort, Patrick brings home a surprise to spice up their bland life.//





	1. 'Cause you know us

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody, finally here with a promised sequel! There isn't much I would like to say but I will express my thank yous to all the amazing readers who showed their love for 'Fly on the wall' and whose support I felt strongly while writing, you guys are just amazing! A little heads-up, this fanfiction will deal with some pretty heavy stuff in the spirit of the previous part, so if you're not willing to read about Henry and Patrick's abusive and unhealthy relationship, feel free to leave now - this fic isn't for you. Inspired by King himself, by true crime and my own original fiction, this work will be short but creepy and for those who just want to see Henry and Patrick, be sure there will be enough of them loving each other in the nastiest way <3 You are free to leave critique in the comments as long as you're polite :) For more Bowers gang and IT content check out my tumblr @j-fuckin-d, and keep in mind I take requests so come find me if there's anything special you would like to see written!
> 
> And now, let's carry on to the fic, enjoy reading! <3

**I**

_"You play games I play tricks, girls and girls but you're the one,_  
_Like a game of pick up sticks played by fucking lunatics"_

 

1 Patrick Hockstetter parked the ugly beige VW – a gift from his now late father – by the curb of Joe’s Dollar store, where a sign hung to let them know that the price of the gas was to go up with the beginning of March. The engine coughed once as he turned the key, threatening to never come to life again. Henry got out wordlessly and Patrick watched him disappear through the store’s glass door. The sun was up in the early afternoon sky, melting the leftover snow.

  A group of teens was gathered by the bus stop just down the street and Patrick found himself suddenly engrossed in them as he sat waiting for Henry. He observed them quietly through the windshield and he even leaned his chin over his arms, folded across the wheel, like a lazy cat under the warm sun. In their youthful laughter he found great enjoyment, like the merry jingle of bells. His eyes skimmed shamelessly down one of the two girls’ slender body, thirstily taking in the view. Dainty hands holding a can of coke, bony thighs and legs for miles clad in a pair of faded jeans; this girl would just as shamelessly as him throw her head back to laugh and the sun would caress her dirty blonde hair as she leaned in to kiss along the jaw of her boyfriend. Patrick found he didn’t like her as much, she was too thin and shapeless. The boyfriend was better – toned muscles flexing underneath a faded jacket, he’d occasionally lean down to smother the girl in dirty kisses. This one’s had enough experience and more invasive thoughts would crowd Patrick’s mind as he watched them.

 The other one was another boy, this one slimmer, smaller in comparison to the other. Patrick’s empty eyes found his legs, slender ones hidden underneath a pair of jeans a number too tight. This one had a prettier built, enough to grab onto and not enough to be unpleasant. But his face was on the uglier side – ears a bit too big and round, crooked teeth sticking out of his mouth whenever he laughed. This one looked more like a weasel than a kid and he’d occasionally grab onto his own girlfriend, his paws leaving red marks whenever he squeezed her wrist. Abusive little boy and Patrick could see it in the evil glint in the kid’s slanted stare and the sweet little thing beside him, every time she hid her smile behind her palm and rubbed into him. What a positive picture.

 A fifth boy joined them soon, striding towards them from the store Henry had just gone into. And while by now Patrick’s mouth had begun to grow dry with all the sweet fantasies of a young adult squirming under his experienced hands, neither of those in the group sparked enough interest. But Patrick found out once he was brought out of his longing daze that the idea of having any of them or any other was, in fact, greatly appealing.

 The VW’s door opened again as Henry got in. He had bought a pack of cigarettes and now he took one out to light; he took a quick drag and he looked at Patrick as he let the smoke leave his mouth in thick tendrils.

 “I’m done, we can go.” He said. When Patrick failed to even notice his presence there, Henry repeated again, “We can go, Pat.”

 His voice startled Patrick out of his sudden ogling and he leaned back into the seat, gulping down the saliva that had gathered in his mouth. Henry followed his eyes towards the group of rowdy teenagers before he scowled, jealousy coming to replace the irritation.

 “What?”

 “Nothing, Hank.”

 Patrick started the car again and the tires rolled down the street as he put it into gear, down the wide rivers of dirty melted snow. And as Patrick slowed down to take the turn he threw the teens another hungry look; the girl he hadn’t liked had just thrown her slender arms around her boyfriend to bring him down for a brave French kiss. It was a filthy display akin to the sex they might have itself.

 The ride home, down the wide streets of Pittsbury, Illinois, was a quiet experience interrupted only by the steady crackling of the radio and the chilly stream of late winter air whistling through the window Henry had rolled down just enough so the smoke could leave the car. The businesses and houses lining the sides of the streets appeared comically small compared to the distance separating them. Little people were out and about. The small town was nothing compared to Derry and even the scenery held a different kind of dread, quieter, less prominent.

 The decision to move had been a prolonged process of endless patience and painful manipulation. It had appeared at that time, however, oddly welcomed, even necessary. And just as Henry had begun to accept them, to accept _himself_ , Patrick had forced him to relapse again. As easily as he would have rewound a movie, he had made Henry go back to the very first stages of their relationship and with all the love and discipline, he had destroyed the remains of his stubbornness. By the end of their three full years of life together on the farm, they had packed up and they had left, never to return again. They – though mostly Patrick – had sold the property to the township and last they heard the house was demolished after no buyer showed interest. But they hadn’t moved right away, no. What they had done first was ensure that nobody would ever get to the body of Butch Bowers, buried now a full three years and now going on the fourth.

 They had uncovered the shallow grave to a bunch of burnt furniture and nothing else visible before dumping wet cement atop to fill the hole once more. Atop that rectangular platform, ironically, they had left a birdbath – for the future residents who would enjoy nature and the songs of the birds. It was as if a last peace offering, to soothe Mr Bowers’ dead soul and offer it something small to relish, although neither of them cared much whether Butch found saviour and redemption in his death. To remind himself of what they had done so long ago had made Henry’s grip on reality thin and faded and it had been much easier for Patrick to convince him that there was nothing left for them in Derry.

 Pittsbury had been a not so obvious choice but it had been the only town far enough where the prices of the houses were reasonable enough and could be covered by what the bank had paid them for the farm. Nobody knew them in Pittsbury. And that soon became a double-edged knife for both of them and mostly Henry.

 Patrick had witnessed himself how paranoid Henry became just soon after they committed their murder and just how jumpy. The distance of the farm from the rest of Derry had been a helpful distraction and as they moved, the paranoia returned with full intensity. This time, there was a different key factor. Now it wasn’t the cops that would eventually come to see what had really happened to his father, Henry’s fears revolved solely around himself, around Patrick and their relationship.

 The single thing he was yet to grow used to was that their new home neighboured many others and what separated them was just a single fence. It was something Henry, having grown up far from society and having lost touch with people over the past years of living on his own firstly with his father and then Patrick was not just uncomfortable with by also intimidated by. People in Derry had always been the type to gossip but there at least they knew them and they knew never to say a bad word about them. In Pittsbury, they were strangers, and people always knew to take advantage of the newcomers.

 Now a year later of living so far away from what they had called home for so long, Patrick had used all of his charms to impress their new neighbours. He let their kids play in their yard, tipped the newspaper boy whenever he came by, mowed lawns and even gave the kids a reasonable amount of candy – without any added surprises for them to find only later when they started throwing up over the toilets – for Halloween. Henry did not want to participate in any of those social charades and Patrick didn’t either, but for their own calm, he made the sacrifice. He had to behave and so did Henry, which he did, like the good boy Patrick had taught him to be.

 Still, for the sake of Henry’s nerves, the windows in their humble one-storey home remained covered all year long by curtains thick enough to prevent the neighbours from throwing looks inside but thin enough to let in the sunlight whenever they woke up in bed together. The doors and windows were locked securely every time they walked out. Henry rarely went out whenever Patrick wasn’t with him and the only times he did was to go to work in the paper factory out of town.

 Having grown out of the initial dependency and shyness, Henry had become much more aggressive in the way he expressed his affection. It still bore the innocence Patrick had found so long ago and he allowed it, with great amusement, feeling flattered every time Henry scowled whenever his eyes lingered on another a bit too long or when he wasted his time in chatter with the neighbours instead of coming home to him finally. It was sweet. It was in a way the same old song, the same old dance they knew well. Henry was still Henry, still raw in his love and although more courageous, both of them knew well who owned who. They never said it, Henry too afraid to let his mind stray in that direction, Patrick too confident in the truth, but they both knew.

 And that was all. That was enough; a simple life.

 Only it was becoming mundane, it was becoming boring. That would be something Patrick would never tell Henry outright; he still doted on him far too much to let the distance between them grow. He knew Henry would be hurt if he were to hear the truth, despite the façade of anger he might show Patrick. Secretly, what Patrick needed and what Henry couldn’t give him anymore was something new, something to spice up their bland life; an excitement. Only Patrick had no possible idea what that peculiar something was. And while for any other couple buying a dog was enough of a distraction, they were no ordinary pair.

 The car rolled into the driveway of 213, Douglas Lane, and the two got out. From the backseat, Henry took out the two bags of groceries and they crossed the humble yard towards the front door together – the perfect image of a domestic couple.

 The house inside was dim and chilly without the sunlight to warm the stale air. It was by no means messy despite the occasional piece of clothing found lying about on the floor and their bed left unmade for reasons unknown. Their fridge was usually empty as neither of them cooked and no food stuck around for long; they owned little dishes and cups to begin with so the sink was most times found empty. Used to the hard farm work and chores already Henry would be the one to get up early and fix whatever mess there was to fix before heading out to work. Most evenings he would come home too tired to do more than settle on the couch with a beer in hand and stare at the late night shows, always with a possessive hand laid over Patrick’s knee or shoulder. Patrick enjoyed the amusing sentiment.

 The blinds were drawn over the kitchen windows and only the slightest bit of light slithered through the cracks between them. Their home was as eerie as its owners. Henry didn’t bother putting away whatever they had bought and he only put the six-pack of beer in the fridge before closing the door. Almost immediately, Patrick stood behind him and in the secrecy of their safe home, he wrapped his arms around Henry’s middle. Fingers dug underneath his shirt, not minding the jean jacket buttoned over it and the lingering touch played across the forming layer of fat there.

 “That beer’s no good for you, Hank,” Patrick muttered, muffling the words in the skin of Henry’s neck as his head tipped back and rolled to lay over his shoulder, “in more ways than one. Hmm, are you gaining weight?”

 “Why do you care?” Henry bit back, although his snappy tone was rather feigned. He felt as though Patrick was joking or making fun of him for whatever reason but when Patrick usually did that, he meant nothing bad.

 “You’re going to get fat if you keep it up, Hank. Do you think these little rolls would be attractive?”

 “What the fuck’s your problem, Patrick?”

 This time Henry turned around to face him when Patrick shamelessly pinched at his waist; there was an angry spark in his eyes but also the thick shadow of hurt as Patrick’s words finally reached the thin barrier of his ego. Patrick wasn’t just teasing him or even if he was, it felt far worse and painful to take.

 “I’m just taking care of you.” Patrick shrugged indifferently, trapping Henry once more against the fridge. “You’re no growing boy anymore, Henry. You want to be in shape, don’t you?”

 “Fuck off…”

 Patrick watched him walk out of the kitchen, his wide leer betraying his enjoyment. He caught up to Henry in the hall where he watched him hang his jacket and toe off his shoes. When Henry tried to walk past him on his way to the living room, Patrick caught his arm; all too soon his arms were around him again and this time he wasn’t going to be cruel.

 “Hey, what about the sex?” He asked, always the one insatiable.

 “I thought you didn’t like it.” Henry said, his tone a threatening one when Patrick’s hands slid under his shirt again.

 “I never said that,” Patrick mumbled apologetically almost as he nosed his neck. He ran his teeth against the lobe of Henry’s ear, sucked in the thin hoop of silver that Henry still kept and pulled, eliciting a quiet groan from Henry. His hands came up to cover Patrick’s, fingers lacing with his – timid and uncertain. And now when Patrick pressed a little kiss to the tip of his now red ear and inhaled the scent of soap and chemicals lingering in his hair, he sensed the lovely smell of his fear, this one a different kind than the raw instinct. This one was ridden with insecurities and it was Patrick’s new addiction. “Why would you think I hate it?” He asked, “I’m just taking care of you, Henry. Okay?”

 “Okay.” Henry agreed, as easily as he always seemed to do whenever Patrick said anything. Sometimes, Patrick found himself enjoying his pliancy; other times, it was just that that made Henry so uninteresting now.

 

2 They stumbled into bed together and Patrick was quick to take his very convenient spot between Henry’s thighs, pliantly opened and inviting now. They wrapped around his middle and tugged him in close while impatient fingers found his belt, while his teeth dug into thin lips. It was far too early for this but who would stop them?

 This aspect of their life hardly changed and Patrick found himself oddly enjoying the lack of spice in the bedroom. He had always been a hard to please person in terms of sex, not because he had any physical troubles but because very few things could turn him on. Ironically, the last time he had felt the rawest pleasure of the act had been all those years ago, when they murdered Mr Bowers, when they left bloody handprints over each other, when Henry had cried and when he had held him…

…Naturally, with time, Henry had started liking it whenever Patrick touched him so and the resisting and crying lessened until it stopped completely far too soon. Patrick still liked it and they did it more than often despite their schedules but it was only because it was Henry. If it were anyone else, Patrick would have grown annoyed by now. Experimenting with Henry was almost out of the question and sex, in general, was a taboo topic when they weren’t doing it like rabbits; negotiating kinks and terms was rather difficult. So far Patrick had always complied with Henry’s wishes and as long as he actually got a piece of him, willing or not, it was fine. But for how long?

 And while Patrick had become rather distracted by his incessant thoughts, Henry had become impatient. Long past were the days of shyness and timidity and him feeling embarrassed by Patrick’s experience – now whenever Henry felt uncertain, he made up for the lack of knowledge with eagerness. He tugged down Patrick’s shirt and he trailed wet kisses along his thin neck to leave his own mark, the bare edges of his teeth teasing the pale skin.

 “Impatient today, sweetheart?” Patrick groaned, brushing a hand through Henry’s hair. His fingers tightened around the strands and he tugged, softly at first, before forcefully pulling Henry’s head down until he could leer down at him, until he could get a good look at the thirst in his eyes, darkened with arousal. His face was flushed, lips shiny with spit and so very kissable.

 “It’s your fault.” Henry said, his confidence evident not only in his voice but also in the way he touched Patrick when he kissed him again. His hands found a place to lay at his waist before sliding courageously lower to grope at the back of his thighs. There wasn’t much on Patrick to hold in the first place and the curves Henry always seemed to pretend existed were replaced by thinness and lack of any plump shape. It wasn’t a figure that would suit either gender but Patrick made it work surprisingly well. Or maybe Henry was the only one who could appreciate it, having been with Patrick for what felt like an eternity. In terms of sex, Patrick was the only thing, the _best_ thing, Henry had and ever would know.

 Patrick pulled him up again for a bare moment to pull off his shirt and Henry watched, fascinated and wide-eyed as he slid off his own undershirt and threw it carelessly aside. His hands found purpose again as they explored Patrick’s naked back. They kissed, deep and wet and breathless, and Patrick thought, while he held Henry’s face in his hands, that Henry had become a good kisser now. There was barely any desire to dominate in either of them and kissing had always been just a sloppy exchange of saliva, something lingering and heated – the best kind of foreplay, messy like their sex and just as needy.

 And when Patrick guided Henry down again, the sudden thought that those teens at the bus stop probably kissed the same way crossed his mind. Suddenly in his bed lay not Henry but another nameless girl or boy, another kid, squirming, making noise and grabbing onto him.

_Sir, please!_

 Patrick rubbed away the sudden moisture in his eye, almost as if he were rubbing away the vague but hot thought out of his mind. He then returned to loving Henry-kins.

 They parted for long enough to take off their jeans, doing a sloppy job of undressing as their impatience rose. Henry’s pants were left hanging around his ankle when Patrick pounced on him again, lavishing his body in kisses, covering him in messy bitemarks. He had exaggerated a bit earlier – Henry was as toned as he had always been and the hard work in the paper factory kept him in somewhat reasonable shape. Too much beer would eventually have a hand in the little bit of softness now forming at his stomach but now that Patrick ran his hands down his chest, now that he felt his muscles moving underneath his grabby fingers, he thought that Henry would never be less than perfect in terms of shape. He was a tall man, a strong one and he could surely put any teenager to shame – good for Patrick, for having found such a catch. But Patrick’s always known he had an outstanding taste.

 “How about you turn around for me?” He huskily whispered, dipping his hand just under the waist of Henry’s underwear and pulling down the material as he stroked the side of his thigh. “Hmm? Will you do it for me, baby?”

 Without a word, Henry kissed him, etching his consent into Patrick’s lips before obediently turning around. His hand gripped the pillow, overwhelmed and so very self-conscious, until Patrick laid his own palm over it; the fingers loosened their grip before wrapping around Patrick’s thin wrist and holding on.

 Henry didn’t like it when they did it so and the reason had less to do with the marks etched into the skin of his back, some Patrick had known for a long time, others so old their stories were forgotten for good. What Henry disliked was being robbed of the little power he still possessed whenever he could look at Patrick, whenever he could reach out and push him away or pull him in. Henry didn’t like turning his back on anyone and while Patrick should have been about the only person left who he could trust, he trusted him less when he put him in such a powerless position.

 “Can you get it for me?” Patrick asked sweetly, breathing in the scent of his skin. Naked skin slid across naked skin, sharing warmth. Wordlessly, Henry let go of his hand and as he held his breath in anticipation, he reached towards the bedside table. In the drawer there hidden by the rest of the useless things was a half-used tube of lube.

 Henry passed it over to Patrick and then he closed his eyes and waited; his heartbeat quickened, breath coming out in rushed huffs and gasps as Patrick kissed his shoulder, the back of his neck, dry lips trailing down his spine and made Henry shiver.

 “Say it,” Henry gasped quietly, brushing away the beads of sweat dotting his forehead briefly. He bit his lip to stifle the faint moans as Patrick’s fingers moved inside him before repeating again, “Say it…”

 Patrick grinned, warmth swirling in the pit of his stomach. He nosed the skin just behind Henry’s ear, kissed the flushed lobe wetly before saying just as quietly:

 “ _I love you, Henry_.”

 And Patrick did love him, maybe he loved him more than he had anyone else but himself. At least, as far as the emotional abuse and manipulation he forced upon Henry daily could be called that special word. Patrick Hockstetter did not know how to love any other way. He would say it a dozen more times, just to see Henry melt so under him, just to see his worry ebb away and be replaced by the need for Patrick, the pure adoration he felt for him. But Henry was a needy thing, Henry was an abused and broken mind. He could never tell just how different true love felt and he could never know that he didn’t, in fact, love Patrick either.

 But those things had no meaning for either of them. They had fun, they felt good, and while they had each other…They could feel normal and could _feel_ something at all.

 Patrick was nice, just this once, because he felt generous and because the gentle moans that left Henry’s chapped lips, stifled in the pillow or behind his fist, made him feel soft inside. Usually, their intercourse was far less emotional, more about relieving the stress and muffling the invasive thoughts of the daily fears and worries. In fact, the last time Patrick could remember sliding into Henry with such care, holding his hand while he did and listening, really listening, to his quiet pants, to the softness of his gasps, had been months ago when they had tried fitting together in the bathtub. That hadn’t been a fail entirely but ever since they thought to stick to just pressing into the wall if they felt kinky.

 He looked down at Henry when he felt the back of his thighs meeting his; he had just sucked in a deep breath through his nose, his eyes closed to allow his mind to fully feel all that was happening, letting his body feel the sparks of pleasure. When Henry opened his eyes again to stare at an unspecific spot of the wall, Patrick could see in those deep pools realisation, he could see understanding and acceptance and he knew that Henry couldn’t care less anymore who did what to him. Engrossed in that dazed look, Patrick ran a hand through Henry’s hair, tugged just barely on the strands until Henry looked up at him as best as he could from that difficult angle. Patrick wondered just what he saw as he looked into his own eyes, was there any emotion, was there pleasure, love, was there spite? Because, certainly, he could never explain the things that wet, puppy look got him feeling.

 “Turn your head into the pillow.” Patrick said as the first few thrusts eventually left him breathless. Now Henry’s eyes became fearful and questioning when he looked back at him and Patrick’s fingers tightened around his hair to prevent any unreasonable questions. “Just do it, come on, honey. Turn your face into the pillow, come on.”

 Henry appeared apprehensive for a moment – how would he even breathe that way? But then he calmed down again and just as Patrick had so carefully ordered he took a deep breath and hid his face in the pillow. He felt as though that could be allowed, so he said nothing.

 But what Henry didn’t know was that now with his face turned away from him, it was very easy for Patrick to imagine somebody else there when he closed his eyes. Images flooded his mind and he was as weak to stop them as he was willing to let his imagination run wild. Suddenly he thought of the night they murdered Mr Bowers, of the hot blood, as he felt under his hands pliant flesh; he thought of a playful tongue wetting pink lips after a kiss, of crimson flesh left under desperate fingers as he forced into the mattress and unwilling accomplice…

 It was overwhelming, a delirium. It made Patrick experience those vivid flashes, those feelings, on a level far different than physical. It was a spiritual high. Patrick was never this easy to let himself melt into the passion but it felt like his control was easily slipping through and he both loved and resented that.

 Underneath him, Henry panted and his sweat damped the pillowcase as he tried to breathe through the sudden change of rhythm. His hands scrambled to hold on to the pillow, to find Patrick’s hand.

 “Pat…” He managed to gasp before Patrick forced his head into the pillow again and suddenly what had begun as a sweet, almost affectionate display of love became something wild and nearly vicious.

 And it wasn’t Henry who had begged, it was some other voice, some other person writhing under him, trying to both get away and pull him closer. Gasps of a dying struggle, like the crackling of a fire growing cold, nails leaving behind deep scratches as they tried to pray off a relentless grasp – _his_ grasp.

 As quickly as it had begun, it ended as Patrick felt the pleasure rushing through him like bolts of lightning or electricity. He felt drained, breathless, and usually, it was Henry who needed an endless amount of time to recover, never him. Patrick could still feel the aftershocks of the violent fantasy, shivers rocking through him and leaving behind goosebumps.

 He fell sideways onto the bed, opened his eyes to stare at the ceiling as if he had in front of him the constellations of the farthest part of outer space. His cheeks were flushed, warm to the touch when he ran his hands through his face. Beside him, Henry could finally breathe, gulping down air as if he had been about to choke hadn’t Patrick finished in time. Still, to both of their wonder, the sheets under him were damp and not with sweat. He had come too.

 They lay there panting, each lost in their own thoughts as they recovered. As if nothing worthy of a conversation had happened, Henry reached for Patrick; timid fingers touched his shoulder, then he lay his palm over his chest to feel it rise and fall, desperate to prove to himself that Patrick was really there with him. And he was there, physically, but his mind was elsewhere, somewhere very far.

 He touched Henry’s hand in turn, fingers tangling lazily as a late apology. But when Patrick realised finally whose hand he was holding, the magic of his afterglow was abruptly ruined by the reality. What had just happened and how had it all ended in such a messy aftermath?

 “Pat?” Henry asked, sitting up when Patrick suddenly pushed his hand away and got out of bed. He watched him, baffled, as he fixed underwear and pulled up his jeans and he called after him when he rushed out of the bedroom, “Patrick?!”

 What would have happened if Patrick had stayed, however?

 

 They didn’t talk about it, they didn’t mention it, and the memory of what had happened haunted them through the remainder of the day. Patrick’s mood surely became grimmer and the lack of answers angered Henry to a point where they would be in the same room but pretend they were all alone – no words shared, no touches and the bare couch a border between them.

 But as many things before between them, this little wordless fight eventually ended the way it began – spontaneously and without any unnecessary drama. Henry knew it was all over when Patrick threw his legs over his when he sat down beside him on the couch that evening and offered him a beer. He refused that with a shake of his head.

 “Are you mad or something?” Patrick asked him with a snort of indifference, as if the whole day had been just dandy and full of the regular. As if he hadn’t nearly suffocated Henry to death in the middle of sex while in his imagination he fucked the life out of a faceless minor.

 “I just don’t want a drink.” Henry said. He was scowling as he stared at the TV and Patrick could tell he wanted the beer. Instead, Henry reached over to the table to grab a cigarette to smoke and he lit it with nervous, impatient fingers; the first drag was rushed and needy.

 Patrick’s lips stretched slowly into a grin as he realised just what Henry’s problem was. He popped his beer open and, watching him carefully over the top as he drank, he ran his knee along Henry’s stomach.

 “You know I like that,” he said, his expression betraying his smugness and delight, “I was just joking earlier. You can drink all the beer you want, you little cuddle bug.”

 Henry growled but it was too soft a sound to be too threatening, and when he pushed Patrick’s legs off his, Patrick laughed, unfazed and unbothered.

 “You know it was just a joke.” He said again as he sat up. He nosed along Henry’s jaw and he tried to turn his face towards him for a kiss but Henry was still visibly mad. Well, not really mad, perhaps, he was just playing. And the longer Patrick acted as if it was all no big deal, the more he frowned. Now that would be a bigger problem than his future beer belly, he could get wrinkles from that sour look. “Come on, Hank. I didn’t mean it,” Patrick said, kissing the corner of his mouth and waiting for Henry to take another drag of his cigarette before trying to kiss away the grey puffs of smoke, “I was just teasing you.”

 He ran his knuckles along Henry’s forehead, loving how the choppy strands of his hair felt against his palm and how those wrinkles of anger relaxed under his touch before Henry pushed him off and back onto the couch. Patrick landed back onto the dirty pillows with a huff of laughter. And, again, he threw his legs over Henry’s.

 Nothing had happened. They were fine. At least, they both tried to convince themselves they were. Somehow, nothing felt right anymore.

 They went to bed later that evening when the last of the boring game shows were through and the late comedy sitcoms were due to start rolling. Patrick didn’t sleep much but he would always at least lay down beside Henry until he was fast asleep before going for another beer and to find the porn channel. Sometimes he would stay and listen to Henry breathing, staring at the dark and then at dawn he would watch the room become red as the sunlight came through the reddish curtains. He’d wake up Henry with kisses, maybe fuck him once before work…Sometimes, Patrick would fall asleep, and Henry would be there to watch him wake up in the morning, his sleepy face as innocent as that of a little saint.

 Patrick had just laid down under the covers, ready to open his arms so Henry could settle against his chest and he could whisper to him his goodnight wishes when Henry sat up. He appeared to tense for a moment as his fingers flicked the switch of his nightlight – a necessity now after the night they killed his father. Henry wasn’t necessarily afraid of the dark, he was afraid of opening his eyes and seeing Mr Bowers looming over him like a dark shadow of the past and there wouldn’t be any light to chase it away. Patrick found it amusing, to say the least, and though he had expected Henry to throw a fit when he gave him the very first Daisy nightlight as a birthday gift one year, he had appeared rather excited even when they turned it on the same night. The light had been soft, yellow, providing guidance and comfort in the dead hours.

 “I have another one,” Patrick said after a moment of watching Henry fidget and toy with the switch, as if that would make the bulb magically come to life. “In the kitchen, the drawer right of the sink.”

 Henry looked at him, a bit wide-eyed, as if he hadn’t thought that this entire display of wholesome misery was being watched until now. Then his eyes softened, a quiet thank you, and he got up. He returned a moment later with a brand new nightlight – this one not of the old and broken Donald but a shooting star.

 Henry replaced the two quickly and when he flicked the switch the little light came to life. He went to turn off the other light in the bedroom and now it was only the soft glow of the shooting star there to lead his way back to bed. Patrick waited there with open arms, grumpy to be actually made waiting.

 “Can you say it?” Henry asked once Patrick’s arms were firmly around him. He raised his head from where it lay on the pillow and looked at him, all bitterness from the day forgotten.

 “I love you, Henry.” Patrick said, obeying the quiet wish and adding a little peck to Henry’s lips as a sweet bonus. They kissed again and Patrick let his tongue run along the tip of Henry’s teasingly before pulling away. “Goodnight, Hank.”

 “Goodnight…” Henry nearly whispered. He laid down again, stared at the orb of faded light for a moment before closing his eyes and begging, “Say it again.”

 Brushing away his hair with one hand, Patrick leaned over him to place another lingering kiss over one faded scar, just above his eye.

 “I love you, baby.” He said and it was tone so soft, it could be called loving wasn’t he too busy leering like a hungry predator as the words slithered past his lips, devoid of their ethereal purity. “Sleep tight now. Tomorrow’s another big day.”

 

 Henry was the first to wake up the next day and he made breakfast early before going out, as usual, long before Patrick had to do anything. His working hours, unlike Henry’s at the factory, were rather irregular and that was part of the perks of working at the call centre. Sometimes he worked night shifts and those were fun – being one of the very few people in the office, answering calls and listening to people cry their miserable hearts out was a rather joyous pastime for a sadist.

 So Patrick listening to Henry working in the kitchen for a long time before the front door finally shut for good at around half past six. He took a shower, brushed his teeth and made sure he at least looked less bad – in terms of feeling it, he felt horrible. That had little to do with rolling awake in bed until now and more with the emptiness in the pit of his stomach calling to be fed.

 In the kitchen, Patrick found breakfast and coffee, and he let that wait while he went out to get his paper. The early sun shone brightly outside and the air, though rather chilly, brought along the scent of impending spring. Idyllic mornings such as that one always seemed to go unnoticed by Patrick.

 The newspaper boy had just stopped by his mailbox to leave him his paper and mail when Patrick walked out. He greeted him excitedly and Patrick smiled, amused not by the cheerful greeting but of his thoughts about the kid’s mother who called him at least once a week to spill the pain of her marital life. He had seen her many times before in the store or in the park and it never failed to baffle Patrick how normal she looked otherwise.

 “Tell Mrs Calhoun I said hi.” Patrick told him and thankfully, the kid didn’t notice his smugness.

 “Will do, Mr Hockstetter!” He promised. “You got to pay for the paper next week, don’t forget.”

 “I can pay you now, if you come inside…”

 “Let’s leave it for next time. I got to hurry right now, actually.”

 Patrick watched him bike down the street, leaning a bit down to get a better look of his bottom rubbing along the seat. The familiar feeling of yesterday as if overwhelmed him again and he found he couldn’t quite look away. From the neighbouring garden, Mr Heflin followed the boy with the same interest and the almost same tilt of his head as Patrick’s. _Perverted creep_ , Patrick thought, _right in front of his woman_?

 Mrs Heflin, who was yet to be a Mrs and was still just a Ms Someone, raised her head from where she was working in her garden and she smiled at Patrick. Such nice neighbours, if only Henry could see the appeal of having them around.

 Patrick returned inside more bothered than he had walked out. Thoughts of the little newspaper boy clogged his mind, of the couple yesterday kissing, of those kids laughing; even Mr Heflin’s odd, perverse look filled him with the need to wrap his hands around a slender neck and just…squeeze. It wasn’t as though Patrick was angry, he had nothing to be angry about, and the day had started the same as any other peaceful one. But it wasn’t just this single day that was wrong, he had been having the same feeling all week, all month even. Whatever was happening, Patrick wasn’t quite sure what it meant and what to do about it.

 He sat on the kitchen table and he ate, and he thought of Henry. If he were to tell Henry about the thirsty looks he had been throwing the neighbourhood kids, surely he would flip. Patrick could easily predict any one of Henry’s actions, as if they were his own, and he didn’t want things to be how they were but he also found them rather fun to experience; like he was the sole viewer in a movie theatre and it was his life on tape only Patrick had no idea how this particular episode of the saga would end. And that uncertainty filled him with something similar to dread, to fear of what would happen should the itch in his hands remain.

 Patrick had never felt such a thing. Actually, Patrick had truly felt very little things; the strong affection for his mother, the horrible fear of the aliens his father had called leaches, his need, _his starvation_ , for Henry…But he had felt those things knowing fully well what they were, knowing how to best control them without excessive drama. This here was dangerous. This need was out of his grasp.

 And it felt as though if Patrick didn’t get his entertainment soon, things could get even worse. This wasn’t plain boredom. This was him, going crazy, and he was doing so in full awareness.

 It had to stop.

 And there was a single way to stop it.

 

 3 When Henry came home that evening, the car was not in the driveway. Patrick wasn’t home.

 The first thing Henry did, following the voice of some very irrational feeling, was to check the wardrobe. Patrick’s clothes were there, his shirts folded, his jeans and pants beside them…Nothing was missing.

 The sight relieved the ache that had overwhelmed him, almost as if someone’s fist had wrapped around his heart and tried to tug it out through his throat. Finally, Henry could shed his jacket, could take off his shoes and breathe right. Patrick had to be at work, only he did not work that day. No matter, wherever he was, he would be back. Henry had long stopped questioning Patrick; sometimes he had odd needs and he followed his impulses like an animal. He did whatever he wanted. And Henry approved and he was used to him missing, to him coming home late without explanation. Back in Derry, while the fear of being caught for what they had done had still been fresh that had bothered him but as they moved in together, as they settled and embraced their life together, Henry began to ignore Patrick’s oddities. He accepted them and moved on, after all, he had just as many quirks.

 When Patrick didn’t come home by eight, Henry accepted that he wouldn’t be home at all until morning. He ate dinner and he left some aside for Patrick when he decided to show up; he smoked a reasonable amount of cigarettes and he even opened a window so the nasty odour could leave the living room quicker. But he didn’t have a beer. Somehow Patrick’s words of yesterday still haunted him, still kept him tight on their leash and even the thought of having his well-deserved evening beer made him shudder. Oh, all those things Patrick did to him, all those mean things…

 The bed was big and horribly empty without Patrick and Henry tried to convince himself it didn’t matter when he got under the covers and turned on his nightlight. Sometimes Patrick worked at night, sometimes he had to sleep alone and that was fine. It was part of the many habits of living together they had grown used to.

 Henry was a light sleeper and he had been since his childhood – none other than Mr Bowers was to blame for that, of course. Since being together with Patrick the habit of jumping awake at the barest of sound had gradually lessened but when somebody threw their weight right behind him on the bed just as Henry had begun to finally doze off for good, when someone’s heavy hand covered his mouth to prevent him from screaming, Henry realised that he had never been this close to a heart attack in his life. Panic and pain overwhelmed him and for a moment he couldn’t see a thing despite the light, couldn’t breathe or hear or move until he finally began to flail his arms in a desperate attempt to get away.

 “Shh, Henry,” the somebody behind him shushed him and when Henry rolled over to lay on his back his wide eyes met Patrick’s face, enthusiasm and joy leaking out of him like that was all he was made of, “It’s me! Shh…”

 “What the fuck, Patrick!” Henry gasped, tearing Patrick’s hand away from his mouth. “What the hell’s wrong with you, you almost…”

 “It’s okay, Hank, I’m sorry.” Patrick apologized quickly. The words were rushed and hurried, and his face was flushed and healthy, so unlike Patrick. He looked happy. And when he pressed a few quick kisses to Henry’s face, Henry found himself baffled; not only baffled beyond comprehension but also so very afraid of what had to have happened for Patrick to be in such a good mood. Had somebody died, had he witnessed a bloody murder or had he participated in one…?

 “I have a surprise for you, sweetheart.” Patrick drawled sweetly. “Come on, get up.”

 He nearly dragged Henry out of bed in his desire to show him just what he had brought home and Henry found himself staggering after him; the pain in his chest had yet to go away and he wasn’t as curious as he was scared to see just what Patrick’s surprise could be.

 And he was right to feel the way he did. Because when Patrick led him to the living room, when he let him see his surprise, all Henry could do was stare – his expression betrayed no emotion and he felt nothing, not even confusion.

 “Patrick,” he began quietly, “ _why_?”


	2. Wash away the sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS!: dubious consent in sexual situations, angst, blood, blood play, forced sexual situations, kidnapping. The Eddie in question is Eddie CORCORAN (18). His character is of no importance and plays a filler role. The main ship is still Henry and Patrick and it's their relationship that plays a main role, everything else is a filler meant to give plot to the fanfiction.

_I **I**_

_"Fake it like you love me, Come on baby touch me_  
_Show me where it hurts, this dirty little curse_  
_Don't have to be ashamed if you wanna scream my name_  
_While I fuck away the pain"_

 

4 In terms of the hour, it wasn’t as late as Henry had thought. It was only a few minutes past one. A half-empty bottle of some strong alcohol decorated the table along with a full ashtray; the room was stuffy again with the stench of smoke and whiskey.

 But it was maybe the shock that prevented Henry from grasping the situation fully. Because he appeared interested in all but the obviously drunk and passed out kid on their couch. He noticed the most trivial things about him – perhaps how his clothes were a size too big and the way they hung around his rather lanky body, how he was just a bit dirty, the bruise decorating his childishly handsome face turning all kinds of yellow and green nearing its edges. Then his attention again turned to Patrick, as if they had far more interesting things to talk about than their guest.

 Patrick paid Henry’s puzzlement little attention. He was already striding over to the couch where the boy was groaning, coming awake slowly. Henry had no idea how long he had laid there and he was too afraid to ask but considering the rather early hour, it couldn’t have been long.

 Seeing his uncertainty, Patrick waved for Henry to follow.

 “He doesn’t bite.” He reassured, kneeling by the couch. “At least not now.”

 “What is he doing here?” Henry asked and the situation dawned on him suddenly. There was a drunk child on his couch, in his house, and Patrick was suggesting biting. When Patrick suggested anything violent, there was only one way for things to happen – violently.

 “His name’s…” Patrick began to say as Henry sat down by the kid’s legs. The tired limbs slowly slid over the edge of the couch and the boy, whose name Patrick had such trouble remembering, was now hanging halfway off. “His name’s Eddie, I think. Or something else with E.”

 “And so what?”

 “So? So he’s here for us, Hank.”

 Henry raised a brow, uncomprehending, “How?”

 “He’s for us to do whatever we want with, Hank.” Patrick clarified and his voice was a low, conspiratory whisper. He was grinning, a look Henry both loved and feared. “He’s for you to do whatever you want with, for however long you want. He’s going to…make things more emotional. You understand?”

 Henry didn’t. Or, at least, he wasn’t quite sure what Patrick meant. Weren’t things emotional enough as they were? Wasn’t he enough for Patrick? Because most times, Henry had given him everything there was to give – obedience, pliancy, all of his control for the sake of something he not always enjoyed. And now what did Patrick want? He still couldn’t be sure. Henry could never be sure with Patrick.

 “What do you want from me?” He asked him. Surely Patrick would have preferences or an advice. “What do you want me to do?”

 “Beat him up a little, I don’t know.” Patrick spoke with enough casualty to make goosebumps erupt over Henry’s warmed skin like fireworks. “Punch him, cut him up a bit, he won’t care. He can probably blow you, if you want.”

 “But why?”

 “Because I want you to, Henry.” Patrick said, sounding rather desperate to see Henry as violent as he remembered him. “Just…I just want to see you do it. It’ll be fun, I promise. Just like before.”

 Just like before, in their case, was a time so long ago Henry barely had a recollection of it. Sometimes he felt as though it had never been any more different than him and Patrick and how they lived now, together. But maybe there really was a past and if what Patrick needed was for Henry to be himself again, to gain back some of his control rather than give it away so foolishly for the sake of sex, then he could do it. Of course. If it was for Patrick, then why wouldn’t Henry do it?

 While they sat there in silence staring at each other as if leading a wordless conversation, between them the kid began to get rather restless. He groaned and tried to find a more comfortable position to lay, his brows furrowed as the alcohol began to make him feel sick. His eyes opened slowly to firstly find Henry sitting there beside him then his head fell sideways to see Patrick leaning over him. When Patrick noticed the kid’s eyes on himself, he threw him a quick look and his leer became even more so wolfish.

 “Well,” he drawled, “look who’s eavesdropping.”

 The boy must have felt the dread those words carried because faster than either of them could blink and despite his still fuzzy head, Eddie had rolled off the couch completely and was making his first and final attempt to run out of the living room. Unfortunately, Patrick was faster.

 He grabbed the kid’s lanky arm and pulled him back until the boy was stumbling into the couch again. He fell on the floor between the couch and coffee table and Patrick grabbed his flailing arms as he tried to hold him down. The grin never left his face; this was the most fun he’s had in a very long time.

 “This one has spirit, doesn’t he?” He asked, looking up at Henry. He had sat up on the couch, looking down at the struggling kid and Patrick while he judged the situation and if his help would be needed. His face was set in a rather adorable look of thought Patrick liked.

 “Help!” Eddie found the strength to scream, though his voice would probably never be heard outside the house. He opened his mouth to repeat the desperate plea before Patrick clapped a hand over it, effectively muffling the sound before it came.

 “None of that now,” Patrick scolded through gritted teeth. Despite everything, he was still rather aware that what they were doing and were about to do was not fully legal or accepted, even if the kid would be better off dead from the teary story he had heard in the car on the drive home. “Just keep quiet and let us have a moment to talk, hmm?”

 But the kid wasn’t one for many words and it was partly due to his panic. Instead of trying to scream again, his teeth sank into Patrick’s palm and he bit him like a rabid dog. As much as Patrick was into a bit of rough treatment, the bite hurt and he yelled out, more surprised than he was actually in pain, before pushing the kid away to inspect his hand. Beads of blood were already forming where the skin had been broken…

 Before the kid could run far though, Henry grabbed him by the shoulders. He lifted him off the floor and he landed one heavy punch to his stomach. That had the kid toppling over breathless until Henry grabbed him by the neck of the oversized shirt and he punched him again, this time across the face. This hit was strong enough to make the kid fall to the couch, spluttering and coughing as he tried to catch his breath after the assault. Blood poured out of his mouth and stained the couch in bright little droplets as he shook and cried. Somehow the sight of the dirtied couch, that of the almost overturned coffee table and Patrick’s hand covered in saliva made Henry all the more annoyed and angry.

 “You little piece of shit,” he spat, bending down to grab at the kid’s messy hair, “where do you think you were going, huh? What do you think you were doing?!”

 “I’m sorry…” Eddie gasped, staring up at Henry with heavily lidded and tear-filled eyes. Blood gushed from his nose and broken lip. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

 “Of course you didn’t.” Henry said. “But you know what? I don’t give a shit what you meant to do and what not! So if you don’t want me to pull out every single tooth of yours you’re going to sit down, keep your mouth shut and let us do whatever we damn want, am I clear? Am I clear?!”

 “Yes…!” The kid exclaimed. His eyes were screwed shut and his chest heaved with every breath while Henry yelled at him. He was trying to cower into the couch, become as tiny as possible, but hiding was impossible. “Yes, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please…”

 “Yeah, I know you won’t.” Henry agreed and he smacked the boy across the back of the head for good measure before looking at Patrick.

 And Patrick who had until then watched engrossed in the violent episode was now smitten. No, not just smitten, he felt as though he had found his old love, the old spark, anew. Yes, this was all that they had needed. This was the rush, the passion their mundane relationship had lacked until now. It was the blood on their hands, the victim at their feet, Henry’s fists bowled and ready to strike and cause pain.

 Staring up at Henry now felt like looking up at a lightbulb – so bright it made tears form at the corners of his eyes. Patrick had never been more in love than he felt in that moment and it was a pure and childish feeling, like the butterflies in his stomach when they were kids and Henry had been just a local bully. Like that time Henry had hurt him in the alley, when he had hurt others that Patrick had helped hold down. It was a spark of something pretty and innocent and warm in its nature that generally had no place in the chamber of torture and misery their living room would become in the next few hours.

 “Have I ever told you,” Patrick said, “how much I love you, Henry?”

 “You tell me every day.” Henry replied, confused by the sudden affection. Patrick wasn’t sure how much he loved Henry every day but he sure adored him now.

 Patrick stood up and his hands found the front of Henry’s tee-shirt before pulling him in for a kiss. Henry’s own hands quickly found a comfortable place to rest at his waist before sliding as low as they possibly could down his thighs without needing to be prompted. His eyes closed easily and he sighed shamelessly, uncaring now if the kid saw or not. Only Patrick was aware of the pair of frightened eyes staring up at them and he watched the boy shiver and cry quietly while they kissed. If only to tease him or wanting to put up a nice show, Patrick let his hands wander up across Henry’s chest, let his fingers brush through his hair before his fingers trailed south and under his shirt to feel his skin.

 Henry tried to follow when Patrick broke the kiss finally and Patrick smiled at his eagerness.

 “Sweetie…” He praised him before planting a kiss to his cheek and letting Henry get himself a glass to drink while he knelt down beside their shaking victim. The kid tried to cower away from him but he didn’t dare move too far away while Patrick leered at him. Patrick let the image of fear seep into him, let the memory burn itself into his mind as he licked the taste of Henry from his lips. He reached for the kid and his fingers tangled in his hair, gentler than Henry had done before but ready to pull if he had to teach a lesson.

 “Now,” Patrick said, “are we all calm enough to talk?”

 The kid nodded easily.

 “Good.” Patrick praised. “That’s a good boy. Now, this is how things are going to go. We’ll have a lot of fun and you’re going to be very, _very_ quiet. You’re going to do what we tell you to, without complaining, and I’m going to make sure nothing hurts too bad. Am I clear?”

 His fingers tightened only a bit in the boy’s hair but it was enough to make him nod again.

 “Yes, I promise, I swear…!” He agreed obediently and Patrick’s smile widened.

 “That’s right you do. What was your name again?”

 “Eddie,” the kid stuttered, “Eddie Corcoran, sir…”

 “Well, Eddie, how bad do you want to go home tonight?”

 “Please, sir,” the boy began to beg frantically, “I really got to get home. My mom will be worried if I’m not home tomorrow and my dad will be really mad if I don’t show up, he’s gonna…He’s gonna be really mad, he’ll kill me if I don’t go home, sir…”

 Patrick shushed him quickly when the kid got too eager.

 “Then that’s good. You’ll be home safe and sound if you’re good. Now, the question is, how good will you be?”

 “I…” Eddie said, confused by what Patrick was asking and what he wanted to hear. “I’ll be good, sir…Really good, I promise.”

 “Then there’s no reason for us to ruin our fun, is there?” Patrick exclaimed, letting go of the kid’s hair before grabbing at his jaw and raising his bloodied face to get a better look at him. A little while ago when he had picked up the kid from one of the benches by the gas station on Carter Road he had seen his face only under the yellow glow of the streetlight. That had been enough to tell him that the kid was attractive enough and the remains of bruises crossing his face had reminded him oddly of Henry. Now that he could get another close look at his face despite the blood, Patrick knew he had made the right choice back there.

 Patrick hopped on the couch and he threw his feet up on the coffee table before patting the spot beside him. The Corcoran kid watched him warily before very slowly crawling on the couch beside him; he tenderly tried to rub away the blood beginning to dry over his chin, willing his stiff body to stop shaking. Patrick couldn’t help but reach up and touch that pair of bloodied lips.

 “Now,” he said, throwing a look at Henry who had just returned from the kitchen with a glass in hand, “take off your shirt.”

 Henry poured himself a generous glass of whiskey and he sat down on the armchair facing the couch before too propping his feet up. His eyes never left Patrick’s and the look they shared was so heated that from another perspective, it would almost appear as if they were taking each other apart right there with their eyes.

 “Take off your shirt.” Patrick repeated when Eddie hesitated and it seemed almost as if he was talking to Henry.

 “I’m…” The kid gulped nervously. “I’m not like that.”

 “Like _what_?” Henry spat, his eyes burning holes into the kid while he took a large gulp of his whiskey. “C’mon, what aren’t you like? You’re not a fag? Not a fruit? Well, you sure are no man either by the looks of it. Quit stalling and strip!”

 The kid flinched when he raised his voice and, sensing the warning note, he slowly began to ease off his shirt. He was thin and bony underneath, underfed, and there was a bright yellow bruise just under his arm, covering his ribs like a neon sign. It was rather warm in the room but even so, a shudder ran through the kid and he tried unsuccessfully to keep his composure while he timidly tried to brush away the remains of blood from his face with the fabric.

 Patrick finally tore his eyes off Henry – he’s never felt the urgent need to sex him up this strong before – to look at the kid.

 “Now, give me a kiss.” He demanded cheerfully. “And make it snappy and worth my while. Show me just how much you want to go home.”

 Feeling like there was no way out of the situation, Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and leaned over to very reluctantly touch Patrick’s lips with his. Bile rose in his throat while he tried to please him, but Eddie was no good kisser, in fact, this was barely the third intimate kiss he’s ever given anybody. He could have tried to make it good the other times but now it was forced, it felt dirty, it felt vile…And there was no way out.

 Patrick watched Henry carefully as he pulled the kid closer and kept him there with a hand around his small waist. Caught off guard, Eddie braced himself with a timid hand on Patrick’s thigh. His lips were stiff and unmoving against Patrick’s and a broken whine formed at the back of his throat when he felt one grabby hand stroking down his back and landing at the back of his thigh.

 “Put a little spirit into it, you’re not kissing your mother.” Patrick scowled. He gave the kid’s ass a tight pinch and Eddie yelped, inching just a bit closer towards him. This time when he kissed Patrick again, he was a bit more eager; his inexperience showed easily when his tongue licked briefly along Patrick’s lips, too shy to demand but rather begging for any form of guidance. The kiss remained uncertain for only a bit before Patrick lost his patience.

 His hand found the kid’s hair again and he pulled him in close, biting at his already bruised lip until he could taste fresh blood. He groped along the lithe body in his lap, pinching at his skin and digging his nails into his back until he marked him up with bright crescents. Eddie struggled again, only briefly, when Patrick’s tongue forced its entrance into his mouth. He couldn’t breathe.

 Patrick bit on his tongue once with a groan before pulling away finally and letting Eddie gasp, his shaking hand reaching up to brush away the saliva running down his chin. His chest was heaving.

 “Stand up.” Patrick ordered, looking over at Henry again. There was a barely visible tent in his pants; so he was getting turned on? “Pants down.”

 The kid was visibly reluctant and it was obvious by the bitter tears that ran down his face while he shook off his jeans – as if Patrick was asking him to chop off his fingers with a rusted knife instead of just shimmying out of his pants. Delightful, it had been ages since Patrick had seen anyone cry, especially naked.

 “Go sit where he’s sitting right now.” He continued giving orders and this time Henry raised a questioning brow. Still, he gulped down what was left of his drink before setting down the glass with enough force so the sound startled their unwilling guest. He then got up and went to sit beside Patrick, watching as Eddie slowly sank into the armchair. A wide grin graced Patrick’s face as he was met with such obedience and he almost laughed as the kid waited for the next order. “Hey, how about you brush away some of those tears, huh? What, did we do something to hurt you? No? That’s right. So loosen up a bit. Smile. Come on, _smile_. You want to go home sooner, don’t you?”

 The kid’s fingers shook as he squeezed the armrests of the couch and tugged nervously at the loose threads; a tired breath whisked past his lips and he smiled, as wide as he could. He wanted to go home already.

 “I’m having a lot of fun.” Patrick said quietly, pulling Henry in. He kissed him soundly and Henry’s responsiveness after the kid's struggling before was a sharp and pleasurable change of rhythm.

 “We could’ve done it without all of this.” Henry groaned. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t having just as much fun – in fact, it had been a long time since he felt this rush of power and dominance last. Usually, he didn’t know how best to be controlling with Patrick but this kid here he could ruin. He trusted Patrick enough to know that there would hardly be any consequences of tonight. He was sure there wouldn’t be.

 “Oh, come on.” Patrick sighed, his warm breath ghosting over Henry’s ear. “Don’t be a spoilsport. What do you want him to do, huh? Because…I wouldn’t mind watching him blow you. Hmm, do you want that?”

 “I wouldn’t mind you doing it.”

 “Of course, you wouldn’t.” Patrick chuckled. “But tonight it’s about trying out new things. So let’s take advantage while we can.”

 He pawed at Henry’s chest and tugged at the hem of his shirt until Henry got the message and took it off. He let Patrick nose along his collar bone, let him plant bites and kisses down his bare chest while he considered the idea. Truth be told, Henry wasn’t sure at all anyone else could make him keep it up. His libido and sexual frustration had been over the roof in his teen years…But after Patrick, Henry found it rather hard to relate anything else to sex. That would change tonight. Tonight, for Henry violence and sex would find a strong, unbreakable bond.

 He let Patrick suck a bright red hickey just between his collar bones until he sat down on the couch again more fully.

 “Well,” he huffed, looking at the kid as his voice startled him out of his crying, “are you gonna come over here or make me come over there? And I wouldn’t advise the latter.”

 “Why…?” Eddie asked cautiously.

 “Just get your ass over here.” Henry demanded again. A sudden grin tugged at the edges of his lips and it was a subtle but dangerous little thing. “Come on. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

 The kid obviously didn’t trust his word but he had no other choice. It felt a lot like walking into the trap willingly and far too soon he had crossed the little space separating them. Henry pointed at the spot on the floor just between his knees and he saw the kid take a deep breath before falling to his knees on the dirty carpet.

 “You know what to do.” He said, and Eddie didn’t know just what they wanted but he was getting a good idea by the time Henry reached down to unbuckle his belt.

 “Please, I…” The kid tried to back-pedal. “I don’t know how…”

 “It’s not like it’s rocket science.” Patrick remarked. And though he was rather fond of the show of virginal resistance, he knew Henry was more impatient than that.

 “You’ll figure it out.” He growled, his fingers tightening in the boy’s hair to the point of pain as he pulled his head to his crotch. “Get to it. Now!”

 The edge of a threat in his voice made Eddie finally fight through his ego and throw aside his pride. His fingers shook horribly now and he could hardly get a grip on Henry’s pants to tug them down. A sob broke past his lips and he shook his head.

 “My dad will kill me…” He chanted quietly. “My dad will kill me, my dad will…”

 And then Henry suddenly felt a strong surge of heat – it was dominance and it was power, unlike the kind he’s ever possessed. His fingers tugged painfully at the kid’s hair, just for fun, and he thought of his own father. But the image of him had no hold over him now. He looked down at the kid and their eyes met…Henry grinned, not only, he leered. His heart thumped in his chest rapidly and he could feel it in his veins as the blood rushed through him. With all the cruelty he’s ever possessed, he said to the embarrassed, frightened – frighteningly embarrassed – kid:

 “Yeah, he’ll kill you. That’s what little fags like you deserve.”

 Inexperienced lips and a wet heat engulfed the head of his cock, slowly moving down, and as the kid gagged, Patrick warned him not to bite. As if the kid would ever think to in the current position.

 The kid’s inexperience was clearly not enough to satisfy Henry but he made up for the lack of technique with eagerness. What mattered was for everything to be over. He lapped at the head eagerly, sucked as he swallowed around the length, and Henry found it rather hard not to move his hips into the inviting warmth of his tight throat. A heavy groan left his hips and as the kid gagged again when his tip tickled the back of his throat, Henry sank back into the couch. His eyes slipped shut and his cheeks grew warm with pleasure. His movements became rushed and rougher as he chased the inevitable climax.

 And while Eddie worked, gagging around the taste he didn’t quite enjoy and the shame of the act, Patrick ran his hands all over Henry, kissed his neck and tugged on his hair, unwittingly bringing him closer to the edge and shortening the kid’s suffering. He playfully tweaked one perky nipple before his fingers continued down south to cover Henry’s hand in the kid’s hair; his teeth found the lobe of his ear and teased the soft skin there as Henry arched into him.

 “Is he good?” Patrick asked, already knowing the answer.

 “Not as good as you.” Henry said, inhaling deeply before letting out a deep moan.

 “So…is it worth trying out his mouth or should we speed things along?”

 Henry shrugged and his hand found Patrick’s knee to hold while he enjoyed the sloppy blowjob. He pulled Patrick into a kiss and it quickly turned thirsty and feral as Patrick bit his lip, as his tongue swirled around Henry’s and a string of saliva dripped slowly down his chin.

 Henry’s climax came rushing through him in heavy waves and it was unbelievable that he had come this hard without Patrick being the one to touch him. He held Eddie’s head down while the thick cum filled his mouth and kid spluttered and gasped for air, his fingers grasping Henry’s thighs and trying to push himself away. His miserable sounds prolonged the ripples of pleasure that coursed through Henry.

 He let his head tip back and a bead of sweat rolled down his forehead when he blinked his eyes open finally to meet the muted orb of light that hung from the ceiling. The air felt heavy with the stench of sex and arousal. Henry let the kid move again and raised a hand to brush back his hair while Patrick watched him come down. Their eyes met – Patrick’s bore a look Henry couldn’t describe and hadn’t seen much at all. His eyes held fondness and warmth, Henry’s trust and need. Sometimes after sex, after the pleasure’s let them finally breathe and while Henry lay under the sheets enjoying the feathery touches of Patrick’s fingers, they’d look themselves in the eye and it would feel just like now. It was the closest both of them had ever come to romance.

 Eddie’s heaving and coughing brought them out of the surprisingly tender mood. He was turned away from them, spitting stomach acid and saliva onto the floor where a distinct patch of vomit and cum soaked into the old carpet. He was crying again.

 “I want to go home…Please, let me go home…” Eddie was begging but his pleas went unheard.

 Henry stood up, meaning to go and get himself a cigarette or another drink. He kicked the kid in the stomach when he saw the mess he had made, gritting his teeth as he fastened his belt again.

 “You little shit,” Henry hissed, “look what you did now! Who do you think’s going to have to take care of this mess, huh? Look at this shit! I’m gonna make you lick it off, do you hear me?!”

 Patrick watched him storm out of the living room and he knew Henry wasn’t as mad as he was trying to appear intimidating. Or maybe it was a bit of both, he couldn’t quite tell, all he knew was that it was doing a lovely job with their little guest.

 Patrick stretched his arms over his head before getting up and off the couch himself. The time was two o’clock already. He knelt down beside Eddie, ran his hands over his heaving shoulders before stroking his hair – a comforting gesture. He’s done that plenty of times, luring unwilling participants into the filthiest acts. Well, not many times, maybe, but it had worked once well enough. Hadn’t he made Henry be his that way?

 “Can I go home now?” Eddie asked him and his voice was as thin as a girl’s. He still clung to the empty promise Patrick had made.

 “In a little bit.” Patrick said, undoing his own belt. “This would be a lot more fun for all of us if you would just…take it like a good boy.”

 He leaned down to kiss the kid’s shoulder and the sudden contact made Eddie flinch away. He looked up at Patrick and suddenly the little trust he had had in him vanished, broke down like a dry sand castle in the wind. Realisation dawned on him and the kid tried to run again until Patrick grabbed him, forced him into the floor with his face dangerously close to his mess and his nose taking in the pungent stench of vomit. He struggled as Patrick set his weight over him, cried and screamed pitifully as he clawed at the carpet in his futile attempt to get away.

 And then a miracle happened. Patrick’s distant dream came true. Under his hands he had a struggling little body – and Henry-kins was there too and his love for him burned brighter than ever before. And if this wasn’t heaved.

 Really, Patrick almost came before the show got going.

 

5 The time was half-past two. In only a few hours, Henry would have to go to work. In only a few hours, they would have to return to a reality of boredom and domestic comfort.

 But that was a few hours away. For now, they were stuck in the room smelling strongly of sex, of tears and cigarettes. Eddie Corcoran sat shaking in the armchair, cold, exhausted, and most of all terrified. Then again, all that could have gone wrong was over. What more could they do to him?

 Now that his greatest wish had become a sweet reality, Patrick’s sexual drive was stronger than ever; he could hardly keep his hands off Henry for more than a minute and there was something strongly significant about the way he touched him now, about the way he lavished his body in kisses. It was special. And by the end of the night, the meaning behind them would become less vague for both of them.

 Eddie knew they were plotting something when Henry disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and Patrick turned off the TV. He had turned that on a little while ago and had been browsing through channels of boring talk shows and reruns of old cartoons while he lay on the couch, looking almost handsome in the dimmed light with his clothes so casually dishevelled. He got up, however, when he saw Henry come in; he grinned – something Eddie had learned to take as a very bad sign – and he walked around the coffee table towards the armchair. A broken whimper left Eddie’s lips, his throat was sore already from all the screams that Patrick had muffled and all the crying, and he wrapped his arms around his knees before sinking as far back into the warn armchair as he could. Little did he know that it was that pitiful attempt to stop them that got Patrick even more turned on.

 “Please, just let me go now.” Eddie whined, his sobs muffled in his arms. The tears and snot soaked into the thin material of the shirt they had let him cover up with at least. “Please, I’ll do anything, I promise. Just, no more…”

 “Oh, get a fucking grip.” Henry spat when he finally walked around the couch. He had made it his own personal goal to teach the kid some discipline if his own daddy hadn’t managed to beat it into his head already. Either that or he was taking in the role of the bad guy quite seriously, he was losing himself in the control he was allowed to have over the kid’s puny life in a setting shockingly familiar. Only the roles were reversed and for the better. “Quit whining, you bitch! Is that what you are now? A whiny slut? What are you?!”

 Instead of mustering a reply, the kid only cried harder, unable to catch his breath as he sobbed. He couldn’t stop, and even when Henry grabbed his jaw and dug his fingers in his cheeks to raise his head, even then Eddie couldn’t stop crying.

 “Are you gonna be a girl?” Henry asked him and maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the inner rage that had been piling up, piling up for years, but for a single moment he saw in the kid’s eyes the reflection of his own, and the fear was all his to bear. It was infuriatingly pathetic really. “Huh? Are you gonna act like a woman?! Answer me, answer me or I’m gonna chop off your balls and make you walk like that through town!”

 “I’m sorry!” Eddie screamed, too afraid to really stop crying but also too afraid to look away from Henry and the fires in his eyes clouded by the alcohol. “I’m so sorry, please, don’t hurt me anymore…!”

 “Who are you apologizing to, huh?” Henry said through gritted teeth, and he punched the kid in the stomach, holding back his force but putting enough to make him gasp. “Who are you apologizing to, you fag?!”

 “ _Daddy_!” The boy screamed before his voice broke into stutters. “I’m sorry, daddy, I’m so sorry, please…Please don’t hurt me anymore, I’m so sorry, please no more…!”

 From a brief moment, although it probably didn’t show, both Henry and Patrick were rather stunned. Of course, that passed as quickly as it had come. There was nothing to save Eddie Corcoran and there never was.

 “No, you’re not sorry,” Henry said. “You’re still not sorry, you bitch. But I’m gonna teach you. Daddy’s gonna teach you one lesson you won’t be forgetting soon.”

 Henry looked up at Patrick and Patrick got the silent hint easily. He reached for the kid’s arms and pulled them away from his body despite Eddie’s struggles. But Henry had learned long ago that Patrick was stronger than he looked. He easily took the boy’s wrists in one hand and forced his upper body back into the backrest of the armchair. By then, Eddie wasn’t just trying to punch him, he was kicking too, and the force made his body slide up and deeper into Patrick’s grasp.

 “Hold him down, Pat,” Henry said and the two grinned at each other, knowing just what was about to happen.

 Out of his pocket Henry took out something Eddie couldn’t have seen the first time but he caught a good look at the glinting metal when the blade of the knife popped out. It grinned almost as widely as Henry and Patrick, ready to cause pain and feed on some blood.

 “Kick him and that might just accidentally go into your stomach,” Patrick warned, hissing lowly right into the kid’s ear.

 Henry braced his knee between Eddie’s thighs and eyed his torso for a free place to carve into. There appeared to be plenty of that and he chose himself a spot just above his abdomen. He could hear Patrick talking behind the kid, one hand clasped like a cuff around a pair of dainty wrists while the other kept his head up and turned away from Henry. The thought of blindfolding the kid, of leaving him in the dark while they played, crossed Patrick’s mind but maybe they would try that out later.

 “What should I put there?” Henry asked him and Patrick had to cover Eddie’s mouth when he screamed again and tried to curl in on himself. He knew what was going to happen, what he didn’t know was that resisting it was futile.

 “If you bite me again, I’ll make sure to chop off your fingers _and_ pull out your teeth.” He warned before turning to Henry again. His mood appeared to brighten instantly. “Put your initials on there, Hank? Make it something he won’t forget.”

 Henry thought for a moment before touching the tip of the knife to the kid’s skin. Eddie screamed almost as soon as he felt the sharp edge; a cold wave of fright overwhelmed his body and he went to kick again until he realised that if he did and if he got Henry, Henry wouldn’t think twice about stabbing the whole blade into him.

 Henry made the first stroke into the kid, struggling with himself not to push the blade too far in but also enough so the tissue could scar after. Not like it would have the time to, at least, there was not a doubt in Patrick’s mind that the deep scars would be left bleeding and would never have the chance to heal. Henry maybe was naïve enough to think otherwise. His hand shook as he brought down the knife and as he made the first thin line, blood quickly rushed to the surface – beads formed along the scar and rolled down in thin rivulets as Henry made the second one, then the third.

 Soon a crooked H covered the right side of the kid’s abdomen and Eddie had almost screamed himself out of breath. The blood trickled down his naked thighs and soaked into the armchair and Patrick watched the ruby liquid with great fascination. They didn’t give Eddie a rest at all and soon Henry was back to work again. He chewed on his lips as he thought how to best position the next letter and Patrick could see just the slightest bits of a blush dusting his cheeks when he held up the knife again.

 Patrick followed the knife’s movement with interest now and the kid was screaming less and less, bracing himself instead and breathing through the pain. His chest was heaving, on the verge of hyperventilation; he stared up at Patrick owlishly, unblinking.

 Soon beside the H there was a significantly smaller X and then another line, not fully straight to match those of the H. then Patrick watched, baffled but also charmed, as Henry carved in a choppy P into the boy’s heaving abdomen. The blood rushed out anew. And Patrick felt his heart swelling with unbearable joy as he looked at Henry and his brows furrowed in concentration as he studied his work.

 “You’re such a sap.” Patrick laughed and he let the kid sag into the armchair, a mess of blood, tears and sweat and misery, to walk over to Henry. They kissed messily, lips gliding against each other wet with saliva and need. Patrick had never felt greater affection for Henry who was still so innocent in the way he showed his love, who still slept in his arms to the light of a cartoon character, who so unconventionally carved their initials with the casualty he would have done it on the railing of a bridge.

 “Why?” Patrick asked. “Why’d you do it?”

 “Because I wanted to.” Henry shrugged. He was growing a bit annoyed with how much Patrick was crowding him and smothering him. His cheeks were turning just a bit brighter as he scowled down at the bloodied armchair. It was his favourite piece of furniture, _his armchair_.

 Patrick kissed wetly down across his jaw, down his throat where he felt his Adam’s apple bob when Henry swallowed, then down the side of his neck where he sucked marks of love. His arms kept Henry in an embrace tight enough to show dominance and when he ground his middle into Henry’s, Henry felt the prominent outlines of his erection, straining against the thin material of his briefs.

 “Hey, Hank,” Patrick said suddenly after a moment of thought. His warm breath ghosted along the shell of Henry’s ear. “Can you…Can you do it to me too?”

 “Do what?” Henry asked just as quietly. He couldn’t take his eyes off Eddie Corcoran – the kid was slowly coming to and as his pain was beginning to subside, he found the strength to slowly cower in the armchair, touching the bleeding wounds on his stomach with shaking fingers.

 “What you did to him? Can you write your name on me like you did on him?”

 Henry looked at him suddenly, puzzled by the idea, and Patrick added, “I can do it to you too.”

 Henry wasn’t too sure if that was something he liked – he wasn’t sure he was ready to cut himself up, even for Patrick. But Patrick was the one who wanted Henry’s name branded on his skin, then what right did Henry have to doubt his love for him? And wouldn’t his reluctance to do the same make the wrong impression?

 He chewed on his lip while Patrick went to get himself a drink and sit down on the couch again, spreading his legs invitingly and making a cosy spot for Henry to settle. He waved him over and Henry went obediently. He braced a knee between Patrick’s thighs as he had done before and Patrick watched him as he finished his drink. He threw aside the empty glass and took off his shirt, taking Henry’s lack of verbal answer as a positive one.

 They stared into each other’s eyes and Patrick ran his hands along Henry’s naked torso, along his stomach and chest, feeling the tight muscles underneath. Henry’s hands were still bloody and so was the edge of the knife he held. It was an arousing sight, not as graphic as the fateful night they had killed Mr Bowers, but enough to light the simmering fires inside Patrick.

 “Are you gonna do it?” He asked, his voice soft as he glanced down at the knife.

 “It’s gonna hurt…” Henry said and his voice was hesitant. He didn’t want to hurt Patrick…But a little pain was all Patrick needed.

 “Just do it.” Patrick urged him. “Right here, come on. Just your initials…”

 Henry gulped down the saliva in his mouth and his teeth finally let go of his lip as he settled closer to Patrick. He ran a timid hand down his chest, felt the skin erupt in goosebumps underneath the surprisingly soft touch, before his palm settled over Patrick’s side. Patrick slouched slightly to give him more room to work with and Henry raised the knife. His hand was shaking.

 “Calm down.” Patrick reassured him and there was amusement in his voice as he helped Henry hold the knife. “You won’t hurt me.”

 Henry wanted to believe him. He wanted to do the best of what Patrick wanted. With precision bigger than the one he had cut their initials into Eddie Corcoran’s body, Henry slowly dug the tip of the bloodied knife into Patrick’s pale flesh. He heard the breath hitch in Patrick’s throat, his eyes were as bright as ambers as he watched the blood slowly come to the surface of the cut. Almost as if Henry was touching him intimately, the breath left him in a deep exhale and his fingers tightened around Henry’s hand and the knife handle.

 “A little deeper.” Patrick urged, already breathless. “Come on, Hank…”

 “Shut up.” Henry said, his tone sharp. He wanted to concentrate, wanted to get a nice clean cut, a straight cut. If Patrick was ready to wear his name on himself, then it had to be something he would be proud of.

 There was no pain, or at least Patrick perceived no pain as Henry dug the knife into him again to finish the H. He arched into the sting the knife left and ran his fingers ran along the beads of blood dotting the cuts, smearing them around and painting odd shapes.

 “I’m gonna make a painting one day,” he told Henry, stuck in a heated daze as he watched knife move, “and it’s gonna be all red. What do you think about that, Hank?”

 Henry let out a short affirmative sound as he made the two round parts of the B. His hand wavered a bit when he finished, resulting in a rather unfinished work, but though Henry was judging of the broad H. B. that now covered Patrick’s side, Patrick touched the bleeding cuts with care and adoration.

 “Now you.” He said and Henry might have been tipsy enough to let Patrick cut into him. He had made up his mind.

 They didn’t change spots and Patrick didn’t need Henry to hold his hand when he grabbed the knife. He was confident in his strokes, maybe a bit too confident. And unlike him, Henry didn’t just feel the sting flare and leave behind arousal but also genuine pain when suddenly Patrick jabbed the knife deeper than he had wanted while curling the top of the P.

 “That’s too deep!” Henry exclaimed, grabbing Patrick’s hand with both of his and taking a moment to breathe through the blinding flash of pain. The cut was deeper than the rest but not too deep, although it could have been. The blood that poured out soaked into his underwear and the waist of his jeans.

 His voice, somewhat panicked, tore Patrick out of his daze and he looked up to meet Henry’s eyes, clouded by the tears that suddenly welled up there. It was a look that screamed betrayal but also a conflicted one – Henry really wanted to trust him but then why would Patrick come so close to going too far?

 “I’m sorry.” Patrick said and he meant it somewhat. He brushed away the blood and Henry shook under him, his fingers digging into Patrick’s shoulders as he waited for the next letter.

 Henry grit his teeth when Patrick etched the H; a thin cover of sweat now covered his face while all the blood had drained and gone south where it poured onto Patrick’s deft fingers. He laid his forehead on Patrick’s shoulder when the last bit of the letter was done and the knife finally left his skin, and Patrick ran his clean hand through his hair, patted him like a beloved pet while he let Henry rest. On the armchair, Eddie Corcoran was still stuck in his state of shock, too far gone to even think of running. He might have escaped if he had picked the right moment.

 “We’re gonna have to clean those…” Henry said softly while Patrick gently ran his fingers through his initials on his heaving stomach. He felt the thick blood slowly turn cold and he raised a hand to swirl his tongue around his finger as an idea came to mind.

 Slowly, Patrick made Henry sit down on the couch. He changed their positions, sitting on Henry’s lap now. He was still hard and aching and though Henry’s own erection had softened considerably through the bloody display all it took was a few slow grinding motions to make him stir again. A quiet gasp left his bitten lips and he looked up at Patrick and the mischievous spark brightening his empty eyes.

 “What are you doing?” Henry asked when Patrick took a moment to slide his pants and underwear down to his knees before settling over him again. He ran his hands over his naked skin and then held his face so Henry wouldn’t be able to look away.

 “We’re gonna do it like this now.” Patrick informed him and he kissed Henry wetly again before reaching down to tug down his underwear enough to expose his cock.

 Henry still had no exact idea what Patrick meant but he couldn’t look away from him either, trusting him like he’s always had. What he hadn’t expected, however, was for Patrick to wrap a hand around his erection, rewarding him with a few practised strokes before slowly easing himself down to watch Henry startle and gasp. His hands shot up to grab on to his sides and his breath hitched suddenly. Patrick could feel his body going rigid under him and he bit his lip, enjoying both the innocent sight and the wet warmth spreading below.

 He bottomed out far too soon and he ground down in Henry’s lap, making Henry moan and gasp. Patrick knew he’s never felt anything like this before and he was confident enough to know that like this, Henry would come soon too. It had been a while for him too since he had been in such a position but Patrick couldn’t say he wasn’t enjoying himself. At least, he loved the fucked-out look on Henry’s face while he slowly raised his hips and brought himself down. Patrick could feel Henry's hands shaking, could feel his need to hold him tightly and keep him there. His mouth was opened, lips red and kissable and he’d bite them to stifle the shameful sounds to no avail. His face was flushed, eyes screwed shut and nose adorably scrunched up – it had been such a long time since Patrick had seen him look so sweet and ruined and he made sure to remember the sight.

 He ran his hands through Henry’s hair, held his burning cheeks as he kissed him messily. Tongue and teeth came together in what would have been painful weren’t they so lost in each other. Henry’s own fingers came up now to dig into Patrick’s hair and keep him there, prevent him from ending the kiss too soon. And Patrick let him, enjoyed the shy way he held him while he manoeuvred his hips, up and down, up and down, just a bit quicker before slowing down to a torturous drag. Sweat covered their bodies with the effort and stung in their freshly made cuts where the blood had already begun to dry and form breakable crusts.

 The kiss broke and while Patrick couldn’t help but lavish Henry’s shoulder and neck in more, Henry looked down at where his initials stood out proudly in angry red over his pale skin, framed by a small circle of pink inflammation. He trailed his fingers along that tender tissue with uncharacteristic care and softness and Patrick felt him touch, could almost feel the pride in Henry as he watched his handy work. He laid his forehead on his shoulder to look down at his hand, his fingers bloody, and he covered it with his own, lacing their fingers before looking up at Henry again.

 They kissed. And Henry was soon a goner.


	3. Light of my life, fire in my loins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING!: blood, murder, sex, graphic murder description

_**III** _

_"Boy you're so crazy, baby_  
I love you forever  
Not maybe  
You are my one true love  
You are my one true love"

6 They held each other through the aftershocks of their climax and Eddie Corcoran watched them baffled from his spot in the armchair as Patrick pulled Henry down over him on the couch, his legs wrapping around his middle and pulling him down in fits of laughter. And both of them, both Patrick and Henry, had never appeared happier. Maybe they hadn’t been. Because before the spark had been dying, slowly but surely, and now it was back – a bright flame bringing them close around its warmth, bathing them in bloody hues.

 “I got to be at work in…” Henry said, throwing the clock hanging on the wall a quick look, “Three hours.”

 “So you’re saying we should wrap up or…?” Patrick trailed off, looking over at the kid in the armchair. Time really did fly when you were having fun and as much as he hated to, he’d have to let Henry have his nap before work so he wouldn’t be too tired. He didn’t want this to end, secretly he was worried if not afraid that once it was over, his love for Henry would evaporate just as quickly. Patrick didn’t want to ever lose this and he was greedily clinging on to the moment and Henry-kins’ warmth.

 “I’m saying you should clean up your mess.”

 At Henry’s harsh tone, Patrick rolled his eyes. He raised his hips, rubbing into Henry and trying to show him they had better things to be doing, but he was all but stalling. Unlike him, Henry was done for the evening. That’s what he thought, at least.

 He got off the couch and left Patrick cold and alone to go grab a cigarette or a drink, or both. Patrick watched Henry walk around the armchair where their unfortunate guest quickly curled into the armrest, as far away as he could from him as if Henry would reach out and grab him. He then turned his fearful gaze to Patrick who still lay on the couch, his jeans and underwear pushed around his knees, hair dishevelled and middle messy with dried blood.

 “So, what do you want for breakfast?” He asked the kid, lips stretching into a lazy grin. “We have eggs and bacon.”

 At the thought of food, Eddie’s stomach rumbled then clenched. He felt like he would throw up again were he to eat a single bite. But if Patrick was offering breakfast than maybe he really did mean to let him go and then they could all forget and move on.

 “Oh, come on.” Patrick sighed when Eddie didn’t reply and he got up, fixing his pants along the way over to the armchair. “Don’t be a little brat. I’m being nice to you, am I?”

 “I want to go home now.” Eddie said, his voice too soft to be demanding.

 “Yeah, I heard that.” Patrick’s voice was rather annoyed, he was beginning to hate the kid nagging so much. It was turning into whining.

 Patrick grabbed a glass from the table and filled it with the remaining alcohol from the bottle before going to kneel by the armchair. He raised the glass for the kid to take and Eddie took it in his shaking hands. Patrick had to help him hold it while he brought it up to his lips and took a small sip.

 “There you go,” Patrick smiled, “this’ll calm you down a bit. We don’t want to make your mom worry too much when you go home, do you?”

 “Really?” Eddie gasped, tears of hope filling his eyes as the words slowly sank in his confused mind. “You’re letting me go home now…?”

 “Of course!” Patrick said. “You didn’t think we’d let you sleep here for free, did you?”

 Tears of joy ran down the kid’s cheeks and suddenly his face seemed more alive again, full of colour. He heaved one heavy sigh of relief and he let the empty glass slip out of his hand before, suddenly, slipping off the armchair and wrapping his arms around Patrick. Needless to say the display of genuine gratitude confused and amazed Patrick at the same time and he hugged the kid back while he wept on his shoulder. His body was cold. The blood over his abdomen had dried to a thick crust.

  _H x P._

 _Forever_.

 “Thank you.” Eddie chanted and at that moment, Patrick thought, if he had made him ride him till the break of dawn, maybe he would have. “Thank you, thank you…I promise I won’t tell, I’ll never tell, God…Thank you…!”

 Henry came a moment later and he leaned against the doorframe to watch the two with visible displeasure. He held a wet washcloth in hand and he had probably cleaned out his middle already because the broad letters there were far easier to distinguish. The skin around them was sore and inflamed and Patrick hoped they wouldn’t get infected – it would be a fun thing to see but maybe less fun to experience.

 “Okay, now,” Patrick shushed the crying kid, running his hand through his hair matted with sweat, “it’s okay. Calm down, you little flamer.”

 His joking tone further filled Eddie with relief and he cried harder, ready to meet the end of the nightmarishly long night. So, of course, it was only right for Patrick to break the news to him, not too gently, that the end would be a rather unconventional one.

 “Thank you so much.” Eddie gasped, the tears falling heavily over Patrick’s shoulder.

 “Okay then.” Patrick said and his grip on the kid’s hair became just a bit tighter, his voice just a bit lower until his eyes lost their spark and his face became empty. He whispered into Eddie’s ear, “There’s only one thing though. You know we simply can’t let you live after tonight.”

 For a brief moment, Eddie said nothing. His cold fingers only squeezed Patrick’s shoulders and then before he could open his mouth to question the sudden ominous words, Patrick’s hands were already wrapping around his neck.

 The kid grabbed onto Patrick’s hands almost immediately as Patrick pushed his body down on the floor, bitten nails leaving bright red marks as he tried to pray them off. He kicked to no avail and he trashed under Patrick as his survival instincts quickly kicked in.

 “Henry…!” Patrick exclaimed, needing Henry’s help now more than before. The kid really was a fighter and he was putting up his best fight since the beginning of the night.

 Almost immediately, Henry took Patrick’s place, his eyes two dim ambers as he stared at those of the kid. He pushed him down and he squeezed on his thin neck until Eddie began to struggle with breathing and not with kicking off their combined weight. Patrick stood close behind Henry, watching with pride and hatred as he tore the life out of the boy, as Eddie’s eyes became bloodshot and his face changed colours with rapid speed. Henry’s fingers sank into the frail neck and Patrick couldn’t help but cover them with his own as he felt Henry’s body buzzing with the need to dominate.

 Eddie Corcoran began to kick less and less and his hands that had previously scratched at theirs slowly fell on the floor beside his head. It took no more than five minutes for the light in his eyes to become faded and then disappear – the only spark in them now was the living room light reflecting off of the glazed surface as his eyelids began to drop. A trickle of saliva ran down his chin. His body became motionless, lifeless, and when Henry finally loosened his grip on his neck, when he removed his hands, where his fingers had been now remained a deep purple necklace.

 The murder, although a short process, had tired Henry – emotionally, physically, but behind him, Patrick felt more charged with energy than ever before. It was an erotic moment to experience and it evoked in him the very feral and carnal instinct to possess and to rage, to be an animal, a carnivore. He had forgotten just how strong that feeling could but when they had killed Mr Bowers, maybe he had gotten just the barest taste of that feeling. It had been a tame buzz of shock and icy hotness but now it was like a wildfire, burning him from the inside out and Patrick had no idea how to possibly tame it.

 He kissed Henry instead, knocking their teeth painfully together before making him lay on the floor beside the now dead teenager. As grotesque as it might have been, to see Henry alive and his cheeks so brightly flushed with life beside a body that had been given to the hands of death made Patrick think of poetry. Either that or of the sexiest, lewdest pornographic film - the only thing that could ever arouse him.

 “Pat, stop…” Henry gasped when Patrick broke the kiss to breathe and to tug down their jeans quickly, impatiently. “Patrick, stop. Wait for a second…!”

 “What?” Patrick asked. He could tell Henry wasn’t unwilling about the sex. There was something else and whatever it was, it couldn’t be that important. “What is it, Hank?”

 Henry was visibly struggling to form words; he scowled and he bit his lip, his eyes darted side to side in what could be described as nervousness. His cheeks suddenly became hot and bright red and Patrick found the sight amusing.

 “I…” Henry attempted to say and he took a deep breath. He couldn’t continue, couldn’t force out the words. “Patrick, I…You know, when you say…”

 For a brief moment, Patrick stared down at him, his brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of what Henry was telling him. And then he understood. He blinked, something else rushing in to replace his need – something indescribable and new, something alien for Patrick. He still couldn’t decipher that feeling but he knew what Henry was saying.

 He smiled, brushing a hand through Henry’s hair with care, like he was something precious.

 “I know, sweetheart!” He exclaimed. “Silly thing, I love you too.”

 And he wouldn’t be able to go back on his word anymore. After all, he had Henry’s name on him and Henry carried his. They belonged to each other and all doors for anything else in life were to be forever shut for both of them. Really, neither would ever think to look for something different. Henry lacked courage. Patrick had fallen in love.

 

 At the crack of dawn, Henry Bowers got out of bed. He made breakfast, bacon and eggs, and the radio crackled softly behind him while he worked and the kitchen filled with the smell of food and coffee.

 And while Henry made breakfast, whistling along with the radio, in another room of the house, Patrick was steadily disposing of the floorboards to make a nice wide opening to the underside of the house below. While Henry poured him his coffee, Patrick dumped the body of Eddie Corcoran under the house with the pipes and mud. While Henry drummed his fingers to the beat of the music as he waited for the bacon, Patrick hacked down their couch and armchair to bits in the bathroom before dumping those along with the body now wrapped in their dirtied carpet.

 While Henry walked around with Patrick’s name on him, Patrick did the same with Henry’s in plain sight.

 “We should go get new furniture.” Patrick declared after sitting down with Henry to eat. Henry was already eating, he was in a hurry for work. “I’m thinking…A _loveseat_. Or one of those couches that can stretch into a bed…So we can fuck, right in front of the TV? How about that?”

 Henry’s only response was a quiet grunt and Patrick smiled; it was a grunt of approval.

 Through the curtains, the sun shone and when Henry went to open the window to let in some air he looked out at the mailbox. It was still early but he could vividly imagine the newspaper boy and how he would bike down the street to deliver their paper. That was an oddly incessant thought.

 “What’re you thinking about, baby?” Patrick asked him. His tone was smug, as if he already knew.

 “Nothing.” Henry shrugged. Both of them knew better though. He was thinking of their next playtime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hello everyone and welcome back to another part of my sick fantasies and why I should probably visit counselling! Thank you all so much for coming and I hope you've enjoyed this sick bit of literature. I really have no words to describe how much I love all of you and I'm thankful for the support this series received - Hen and Pat deserve all the love (I think?). I'll probably be taking a small leave of this series because as you can see it's been getting dark, I'm not sure how much farther I can get on with this before someone starts calling me out. So you'll still be seeing fanfics but maybe something more fluffy, I don't know.  
>  I wanna say that I was proud to include hints of my own original fiction in this little fic! The town of Pittsbury is a fictional location I made and use, the rowdy teenagers Patrick was eyeing are the stars of a short story I plan to write, so is the newspaper boy. Mr and Mrs Heflin the neighbours are the pair that inspired this fic all along. Kudos to the movie 'Karla', true crime and Stephen King himself for the inspiration.  
>  With everything said and done, readers, never be shy to drop a comment as long as you're polite! I love all of you <3 For more Bowers gang content, drop by my tumblr @j-fuckin-d and remember I take requests so give me an idea and I'll give it to you!
> 
> << Music: >>  
> tatu - show me love  
> divide the day - fuck away the pain  
> lana del rey - off to the races  
> for more musical inspiration: tatu - all the things she said (russian version) and billy talent - devil on my shoulder


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